For Thy Sake
by Musegaarid
Summary: After Aziraphale is seriously injured, Crowley offers himself instead. Warnings for mild slash, violence, some BDSM, and language.


Had it been three days? Or four? He had lost track hanging here bloody and broken.

The day had started off quite nicely. He'd taken care of some early morning thwarting and miracling, caught up on his accounts in the afternoon and had an early dinner at the Ritz with Crowley. After an extended meal, they'd gone on a walk in the park. There was nothing to suggest that Hastur and Ligur might be lying in wait for him when he returned to his shop. Nothing to suggest that he'd be tied up and tortured, unable to use his powers.

With eyes swollen shut he couldn't even tell what was happening when there was lots of yelling and panic, two loud bangs, and then a sudden ominous silence. Finally, a tiny sound on the edge of hearing, a scuffling sound, and an arm around his waist. He tensed, anticipating the pain.

"Angel…?" came Crowley's worried voice.

Relieved, Aziraphale fainted.

Crowley was horrified. He had just managed to get Aziraphale back to his flat and removed what was left of the angel's tattered clothing in order to see what he was dealing with. Aziraphale's skin was mottled with cuts and bruises of various ages, mostly purple, shading to blue, green, yellow, black, and even red in places. Lots of red. He'd lost a lot of blood. He had two black eyes, a nasty split lip, and a deep gash along his hairline that had bled quite a bit, as scalp wounds tend to do.

The angel's wings were out. One hung drunkenly off his shoulder, obviously broken, and both had had nearly all their feathers plucked out. Whatever had broken his wing had had enough force behind it to dislocate his shoulder as well. There were raw pink lines around his wrists where the thin rope had chaffed cruelly into his arms and Crowley suspected at least a couple of broken ribs. Aziraphale wasn't breathing, but the demon took that as a good sign. At least he wasn't exacerbating his injuries.

Crowley laid Aziraphale carefully on his immaculate bed and gently touched an unharmed spot on the angel's head, fingering the soft curls.

"They're never going to hurt you again," whispered Crowley, fiercely, and he got to work.

A couple of days later, Aziraphale began to stir and cough fitfully. Crowley, who had been maintaining a vigil in a chair beside the bed, sat up and produced a glass of water. He cautiously touched the angel on the shoulder, but Aziraphale whimpered and curled into a tight ball.

"Shh, angel. You're safe."

Aziraphale uncurled slightly.

"Crowley…?"

"Yes, it's just me. How are you feeling?"

"Like hell," said Aziraphale, simply.

Crowley chuckled lightly. "I'm sure. I did my best, but there was a lot of damage. And of course, there's not much I can do about your wings."

Aziraphale extended his wings slowly and peered at them. The left one was splinted and painful, but what seemed infinitely worse was that they were both completely bald. Not a single white feather remained. They looked like peach coloured bat wings.

"What did you do to them?" asked the angel, horrified.

Crowley raked his hands through his hair. "There weren't many feathers left, to be honest. I took out the few that remained so that they'd all grow back evenly. Everything else seems to have healed pretty well, right?"

The angel's only response was to wrap his bare wings around himself and start keening. Crowley didn't know if he was in shock, pain, or mourning, but the sound was terrifying. He reached out a hand to comfort him, but Aziraphale shied away from it. Figuring that Aziraphale needed alone time to deal with things, Crowley turned off the lights and left, shutting the door behind him.

Crowley was sitting on his couch doing nothing in particular when the door to his bedroom opened and Aziraphale finally came out, looking haggard and pale, but whole. He stared nervously at Crowley, his eyes fever bright. Crowley stood and Aziraphale took a step back. Brows twitching slightly, Crowley waved the angel to the couch.

"Have a seat. I'll get you some tea."

Crowley bustled around his kitchen taking time preparing the tea. He could have just materialized two cups, but he wanted to give Aziraphale a few moments to acclimate. When he returned to the living area, he discovered that the angel had sat on the far end of the couch from where he'd been sitting earlier. Repressing an exasperated sigh, he put Aziraphale's cup on the coffee table in front of him, trying to ignore the legs that were drawn in at his approach, and he settled back in his previous spot, eying the angel.

"You look better," lied Crowley.

"Oh, yes. I'm fine now, thank you, dear," lied Aziraphale in return, not meeting his eyes.

"You were injured pretty badly," Crowley said. Then he hesitated. "Would… you like to talk about it?"

"No, no need," interrupted Aziraphale quickly as he sipped his tea through tight lips. "Love thy enemy, turn the other cheek, forgiveness, all of that is built in, you know. I'm fine, really."

Crowley watched him over his cup. No, he wasn't, really, but what could he do about it?

A month passed and things returned to normal. Sort of. Aziraphale hadn't been able to return to the bookshop during that time, but he continued to fulfill his angelic duties using Crowley's flat as a base of operations. His external wounds healed well and his feathers returned in all their original glory, but his spirits remained low.

Crowley noticed that the angel was quieter than he had been before. He ate and read less and slept and worked more, but the vital spark that had animated him in the past, that kept him interested in the world, was gone. His eyes were dull.

For his own sanity, Crowley started working nights and sleeping during the day. He was afraid he'd discorporate the apathetic angel otherwise. He'd brought up the incident a few times, hoping that by discussing what had happened Aziraphale could learn to deal, but the angel refused to talk about it. Crowley had tried to explain that Hastur and Ligur would be entirely incapable of doing much of anything for next millennia or so due to the holy water bullets he'd shot them with, but Aziraphale had just walked out of the room.

The demon had even volunteered to go over and pick up some of Aziraphale's books and belongings from the shop, but he'd refused. That had been something of a shock. Crowley knew something was very wrong when Aziraphale didn't want his books around. He never actually touched any of Crowley's possessions, choosing instead to materialize anything he might need, and there was nothing in the flat to indicate that a second being was living there at all.

Unsettled, bored, and frustrated by the angel's constant flinching whenever he came within five feet of him, Crowley formulated his plan.

Crowley stopped Aziraphale as he returned to the flat one day. "Sit down, angel. I'm sick of you moping about because of what happened. You need to talk about it, so start talking."

Aziraphale's eyes were hooded. "What would you know about it, serpent?" he hissed.

"I know that you can't continue as you are," Crowley said.

The angel sagged into a chair and put his face in his hands. After a few moments, he shuddered and said, "No. I can't. But neither can I talk about it. What should I do, Crowley?"

"Well, if you can't talk about it, then I suggest you relieve your tension in a more physical way."

Aziraphale stood up again abruptly and scowled. "How dare you, you filthy demon! How dare you try to tempt me while my defenses are low!"

Crowley looked taken aback and actually stumbled a few steps away from the enraged Aziraphale. "Stupid angel, I'm not trying to seduce you! I'm just saying that it was demons who hurt you and demons that you're still afraid of. I know it. You're even afraid of me. You flinch every time I walk into the room like I'm going to attack you or something. So, in place of taking it out on Hastur and Ligur, who will be looking for their component molecules for a while, take it out on me. Hit me, beat me up. Pretend I'm them and get your revenge. Do whatever you need to. I won't fight back."

"What? Don't be ridiculous."

"Do it, damn it!"

The angel stared at him, the expression in his blue eyes hard and unreadable. Then, without warning he stepped forward and struck Crowley across the face. The slap rang out in the silent room and though it stung terribly, Crowley was careful not to move. Aziraphale nodded.

"Fine. Take your jacket and sunglasses off, demon, and go in the bedroom."

Crowley complied, wondering just what he'd gotten himself into this time. A moment later, Aziraphale followed carrying a piece of chalk.

"On the bed, demon. On your stomach."

Crowley lay down, watching the angel out of the corner of his eye. Five minutes worth of work with the chalk, and Crowley found himself in a binding circle, completely unable to use his powers. Feeling vulnerable he waited to see what Aziraphale would do next.

"Arms out."

He slowly extended his arms and Aziraphale fastened them to the bedposts with handcuffs.

"Kinky, angel," smirked Crowley.

In reply, Aziraphale shoved Crowley's arm down so that the cuffs bit into his wrist.

"Don't speak, demon," he growled angrily. "Wings out."

Crowley hesitated.

"I said, wings out!" Aziraphale brought his hands together and slammed them into the center of Crowley's back. Reflexively, Crowley's wings burst out, ripping his expensive shirt. He winced.

Aziraphale used the distraction to spread Crowley's legs and handcuff them to the bed as well.

"Demon, tell me how it feels to be completely at my mercy."

"I... I feel sort of helpless. And a little scared," murmured Crowley, who was surprised to find that it was true. He'd forgotten how vicious angels could be when they were righteously angry.

Aziraphale backhanded him across the head. "Louder, fiend."

"I'm frightened!" yelled Crowley.

"I could violate you right now and there would be nothing you could do about it."

Crowley's eyes widened in shock. They hadn't, had they...? And Aziraphale couldn't or he'd surely Fall, right...?

He crawled onto the bed, straddling Crowley's waist. Terrified, Crowley stopped breathing as Aziraphale buried his hands in the demon's wings. Without warning, the angel's fingers tightened and he ripped out handfuls of soft, black feathers. Crowley howled as his wings bled.

"Silence, demon," hissed Aziraphale.

From that point on, Crowley lost all track of time and any sense of what was happening to him. All he could feel was endless pain. The angel was moving like he was possessed: biting, scratching, punching, tearing, and screaming. At some point Crowley was turned over somehow and Aziraphale beat against his chest as if he, too, were helpless against the onslaught.

Then as abruptly as it began, the attack stopped. Aziraphale caught sight of Crowley's swollen, bloodied face, sagged against him, and began to cry desperately. Choking out sobs that felt too large to leave his throat, he clung to the bruised demon beneath him.

Crowley opened his one good eye and gazed at Aziraphale for a moment.

"Let me free, angel," he said softly. At a gesture from Aziraphale, whose powers were unaffected by the circle, the handcuffs opened and Crowley could move again. He wrapped his arms around the distraught angel on his chest and held him tightly as he wept.

"I'm sorry, Crowley" Aziraphale whispered eventually into Crowley's shoulder, as he struggled for control of himself. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Hush," replied Crowley. "You did fine. It's certainly not the first time you've left me in this condition, although it's been a while."

He got a faint smile at that, felt rather than seen, and his fingers twined themselves into Aziraphale's soft hair.

"Are you hurt very badly?"

Crowley took stock. "A broken rib, I think. Black eye. Bruises and cuts. A mild concussion, perhaps, from when you slammed my head into the headboard."

The angel looked like he was going to apologize again but Crowley laid his fingers across Aziraphale's lips. "Stop. I've had much worse and I think you needed it. How do you feel?"

Aziraphale felt like the filth he'd been drowning in for weeks had burned off in his anger and that the tears that followed had washed the ashes away. He felt purified, clean, and holy again. But what he said was, "Better."

Crowley frowned. "Before, when you said... I mean, they didn't really... Did they?"

"No," said Aziraphale shaking his head, "but I felt like it was only a matter of time. You saved me, my dear. Twice, really. I never thanked you..."

Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed Crowley. The demon responded in kind until they were both very thoroughly thanked.

"Now what?" asked the angel sometime later. Crowley was still holding onto him despite his aching arms. "Where do we go from here?"

"Well, I think we should lie here a little longer while I heal and then we should go to the bookshop and get it cleaned up. You'll feel even better to be amongst your own things again and in control of your own space. Anything else you want to do?"

"I could go for some ice cream," admitted Aziraphale.

Crowley grinned. "I don't know if my arms will be healed by then... You'll probably have to feed it to me."

Aziraphale smacked Crowley playfully on the shoulder. The demon flinched.

"Oh, I'm sorry, my dear!" exclaimed Aziraphale.

Crowley flexed his painful shoulder. "Ow. Well now you'll just have to feed me two scoops."

Aziraphale giggled. "One chocolate and one vanilla?"

"Of course, angel," Crowley said as he kissed the top of Aziraphale's head, "What else?" 


End file.
